


Loved without touch

by sycamoretree



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Obedience, Strip Tease, Touch-Starved, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretree/pseuds/sycamoretree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the bbcmusketeers kink meme: D'Artagnan can make Athos come without touching him. A truly desperate Athos coming in his pants with D'artagnan barely touching him, only talking and making a show. Bonus points for Aramis and Porthos enjoying the views but not interfering. http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=1906365#cmt1906365</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loved without touch

“Will you watch me, Athos?”

“Of course,” Athos forced out and his eyes greedily roamed the expanse of a youthful, hard torso glistening like a honey-cake dipped in syrup. Unabated lust was exposed on Athos’ face.

Through his fringe, d’Artagnan looked up smugly and rolled his hips suggestively. “How do you like this?”

The leather stretched when the eager hardness of a young man poked behind the restricting fabric. Athos salivated and a fever burned on his skin beneath the clammy shirt and the exposing white breeches that were all that covered his modesty, except his cock that had been pulled out from the slit of the open garment.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos managed in a strangled tone. The same desperation there like when d’Artagnan saved him from the flames of his burning mansion. A man calling for salvation. A starving and thirsty man. A man who would rejoice at scraps.

“Will you bed me?” D’Artagnan tilted his head sideways so his hanging fringe skimmed over his twinkling eyes. A new shining pearl beaded the top of Athos’ straining arousal before it rolled down the red, veined underside.

“You would be warm. Inside me. Nestled and snug. And so hard.”

D’Artagnan smiled wickedly and his teeth were the colour of fresh cream.

“Mother of God,” Athos breathed which brought on the sounds of someone clicking his tongue.

“Athos, Athos… Did your own mother not teach you to not take the Holy Virgin’s name in vain?”

Athos’ cheeks flushed at the chiding remark from Aramis, and he bowed his head. He contemplated his increasing loss of control, and his state of indecency with his glistening manhood out in the open.

He shifted restlessly and two things happened at once.

A large pair of hands landed heavily on his shoulders and kept him seated and immobilized on the chair. Then d’Artagnan rushed forward and fell on his knees between the parted linen-clad legs of the older musketeer. Athos could barely breathe when Porthos’ presence held so much command over his limbs. Added was the temptation to touch the half-naked man with either outstretched hands or thighs, but resisting in order to obey the request that he don’t touch d’Artagnan this night.

“My lover,” the boy whispered before him and his eyes conveyed sudden distress and concern. “Have you had enough? Tell us, if so. It could all end now, and I’ll be with you in your bed tonight anyway.”

“We would _all_ reward you for your patience and courage,” Aramis interjected as he crouched on the left side of the chair and Porthos squeezed Athos' slumped shoulders deliciously.

“Yeah, can’t imagine how you can stand this,” Porthos rumbled with badly concealed admiration. Athos’ chest expanded so the slit of the shirt parted even more and revealed the flushed skin beneath his chest hair. A ragged wheeze escaped the older musketeer as he with bleary eyes sought out each of his suitors.

“No. Why would I choose to stop such sweet torture? I particularly cherished your dance.”

D’Artagnan smiled with relief and leaned back, obviously wanting to expose the flexing muscles on his torso and arms. He had youth in abundance and wanted to show it.

“What part of it did you enjoy the most?”

Now the Gascon boy was boldly salacious again and Athos looked down with fondness at the beauty resting on his knees between his legs.

“The part that made me hard as steel for you. All of it,” Athos stated easily and a hushed gasp sounded from his side.

“So the more aroused you are, the more honest you become,” Aramis hummed and Porthos’ hands slid down his arms comfortingly even with the barrier of damp fabric.

A glint appeared in D’Artagnan’s dark eyes and his rose up on his knees, face reverently angled up to catch Athos’ eyes. The boy whispered, “Are you about to soil your smallclothes now. The stains on the linen… Wouldn’t you rather spill inside me?

Any hits he had received from red guards in the past couldn’t compare to the punch to his gut when d’Artagnan murmured those words. A wave rose inside Athos, hot and untamed and the more he frantically reminded himself to not do what d’Artagnan had said, it resounded all the louder in his core. Don’t spill. Don’t spill.

Athos clenched his teeth so his jaw ached and his hips twitched when gloved hands belonging to Aramis clutched his middle and pressed him back. The shirt was hitched above his quivering belly and let his cock bounce against it.

Porthos splayed his paws over his chest, and D’Artagnan stroke along his thighs, palms sliding easily on the soft breeches. Athos met d’Artagnan’s needy gaze, eyes wide and brown and open. The stimuli of the hands of his friends on his body, not even on his skin, just on his soaked clothes, were still enough. Athos relished it and panted raggedly.

“I… I’m sorry! Your touch… I can’t contain…!”

He cried out when the pleasure culminated. His aching manhood erupted hotly on his belly, unstimulated but climaxing nonetheless. Spent seed dribbled down the taut stomach and covered the hair leading down beneath the navel. The seed ran lower and made the open breeches wet and soiled.

Athos was dimly aware that he was bucking his hips into the air, clenching the seat with white hands, and three pairs of hands kept him seated. Their touch prolonged the rush but left Athos gasping with need for more. Porthos diligently kneaded his pebbled nipples in the gap of the shirt. Aramis massaged his hips and the small of his back, and sometimes slid lower to explore his arse under the hem of the breeches.

And d’Artagnan with his red cheeks and dark eyes _licked_ along his pale inner thigh, coming up close to his crotch but never putting his wet mouth where Athos yearned for it.

Once the elevation of sweet rapture declined, the flaccid and sensitive cock dragged against rough scars on Athos’ abdomen and the man wheezed from the sensation.

“There you go. You let it all out, nobleman. You’re empty now,” Porthos murmured against Athos’ sweaty temple and Athos moaned when he was then granted a proper kiss on the lips.

A hand dragged through his tangled hair and Athos broke the kiss with Porthos. He turned his head to Aramis who looked humbled for once as he stroke Athos' hair.

“I’m impressed, my friend. You’re not as old as you think. To let go without daring caresses…”

Aramis smiled gently and even his moustache seemed to curve upwards. Athos breathed deeply and at last glanced down between his spread legs to see d’Artagnan whipping out a laced handkerchief which he began applying to the waste on Athos’ person.

“You don’t have to feel obligated to…” Athos struggled to find the words, but the younger man shook his head so his silken strands waved.

“I should clean this up, since it was I who created this mess in the first place,” the boy argued softly, and then he looked up and met Athos’ contented gaze.

“Wasn’t it?” D’Artagnan pressed and Athos sighed deeply.

“Oh, my beloved Gascon. You were ever so tempting.”

“Do you often spill like this? Untouched?"

Athos tensed his jaw for a moment, more in hesitation on how much he would reveal than in soreness as the boy helped putting his manhood back in his breeches. Athos squirmed a bit when his cock nestled against dirtied linen, but he endured that in the hopes that he would soon be rid of the garment.

“Not since my adolescence. Should I be embarrassed?” He asked the question without true mortification.

A fire flared in d’Artagnan’s eyes and when he climbed into Athos’ lap, he heatedly replied while cupping Athos’ face and making Porthos and Aramis step aside, “I would have you cherished for flattering me so.”

Upon the sudden proximity, and the fingers of the man he wanted most of all this night on his skin, Athos could only emit, “I could rouse myself soon again, but I feel that you are in more dire need. Do you want my mouth on you?”

D’Artagnan caressed the stubble on his cheek and admitted quietly, “What if I want you as badly as your cock wanted me? Would you let me take you, in front of our fellow musketeers?”

Athos sneaked a glance at a definitely intrigued, suddenly half-naked Aramis and an increasingly handsy Porthos who grinned at Athos and d'Artagnan, before Athos returned his attention to the Gascon straddling his lap.

“I have but one request. You may take me to bed so I can rest on softer furniture than this chair, but put your hands on me where I desire this time.”

“As if I could stand not ever touching you,” d’Artagnan exhaled and dove in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, even with Athos and d'Artagnan sharing the main focus in this particular story. Feel free to comment.


End file.
